


Stainless, Captive Bead, 11mm, 14 Gauge.

by sunken_standard



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-03
Packaged: 2018-09-28 01:46:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10063916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunken_standard/pseuds/sunken_standard
Summary: Molly has a bellybutton ring.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for mel-loves-all's prompt: "Molly has a piece of body piercing jewelry or a tattoo located somewhere that surprises and titillates Sherlock." from the [Holidaysat221B Sherlolly Prompt Fest thingamajig](http://holidaysat221b.tumblr.com/post/157872988270/list-of-sherlolly-prompts-as-of-312017). 
> 
> Coincidentally, I'd already had notes for some of this for years, so might as well dust it off and just do it, right? Because no one can ever have enough Wank!lock. Tattoo!lock and piercing kink are just a bonus. Underage (well, 17) virgin Molly is a little weird for me, but shit just happens sometimes, so even the Teen!lock crowd gets something here. 
> 
> Set in the vague time after TAB and before the end of T6T. And in 1996. And ten years ago. It's complicated.
> 
> This hasn't been beta'd or Britpicked, feel free to point out errors.
> 
> And to the OP: I'm sorry if you didn't want filth. This just... happened. So hopefully if it's not your thing someone will do the thing the right way. :D

*

 

Molly reached across him, over the lab table, stretching to grab the folder she left in the centre because apparently the two extra steps it would take to walk around him were too much.

 

That's when he heard it; the soft clink and drag of metal through the thin polyester of her (hideous, how surprising) blouse.

 

His back straightened. "What was that?"

 

Not her trousers; no shank button, hook-and-eye. Not a shirt button; definitely metal through fabric and not the click of plastic.

 

"What was what?"

 

"That noise."

 

"Noise." She looked at him if he were the dimwit.

 

"Your..." He gestured vaguely along his torso, thoughts drying up. "Metal," he added.

 

"Oh." Her general air of annoyance/ confusion/ embarrassment at getting caught in her laziness vanished and her posture relaxed.

 

She shifted back on her feet, set the folder down. Pushed her lab coat and cardigan out of the way, lifted the hem of her blouse in slow motion. Her hips jutted toward him, the years-outdated rise of her trousers dipping low enough to show a wide swath of pale skin (and oh dear God, was that a hint of the elastic of her pants? It was; red and scalloped, some kind of inane print from the juniors' department lurking below he was sure), the soft round and dip just below her navel, and then—

 

A ring. Stainless, captive bead, 11mm, 14 gauge. Old.

 

"I've had this since I was a kid. Sixteen, got it in Brighton on holiday. My sister got her tongue done and I was too afraid of that, so I went for this. She was the only one who got in trouble."

 

He didn't think, couldn't stop himself from reaching out, giving it the gentlest tug and a twist, feeling the resistance of her skin, the body-warm heat of the metal against his lab-cool fingers.

 

She inhaled sharply, the slightest of gasps; he looked up and caught the reaction in her pupils, capillaries.

 

Oh God.

 

He realized then what he was doing, pulled his hand back. Normally. Didn't snatch it back as if burned, didn't run a fingertip over the pebbling skin of her lower belly.

 

"Why do you still have it? Don't most women abandon that sort of thing after thirty?"

 

Whatever the moment had been, he'd neatly severed it. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved or kicking himself.

 

She gave him a look that was usually attached to _put away your phone_ or _yes, Sherlock, I did notice the plaques, I actually did spend more than a weekend learning how to do this, kindly remove your hand from my cadaver's innards, now_.

 

"Well, usually only after one's womb dries up and detaches itself to begin wandering. Suppose I'm a bit of a late bloomer."

 

He had no rejoinder at hand, he was still imagining the phantom sensation of the ring between his teeth.

 

Facts! A tactical retreat. "You know the vibrator was actually invented as a cure—"

 

"Nope, that's a myth."

 

His mouth snapped closed; that wasn't how that was supposed to go.

 

She said something snarky about a film(?) and the patriarchy and then something about _would send you a reading list, but you can do your own Googling_ ; he'd got himself stuck on an image of Victorian her in the throes of hysterical paroxysm (and oh dear God that scenario was going to get fleshed out in the bath tonight whether he liked it or not).

 

She left then, apparently satisfied with having temporarily broken him or assuming his state to be disinterest and herself dismissed.

 

For once, he wasn't sorry to see her go. If she'd have stood there much longer, he would have made an utter fool of himself and done something like ask her to solve crimes again, only this time naked and horizontally.

 

He was almost shaking with pent-up need by the time he lowered himself into the bath that evening; as of late, thinking of Molly while his hand was on his cock was a regular occurrence. Oh, it happened before, lots of times, even more while he was gone for two years, then less after he came back and met—

 

Nope. He didn't want to have one of the jealousy-fuelled, shag-at-John's-wedding-in-the-bogs sad-angry three-minute wanks tonight.

 

The 19th century beckoned, but he'd save that for another time, too. That one was better suited to the bedroom, or maybe possibly in his chair after he was sure all the doors were locked and Mrs. Hudson was down for the night from her "soothers."

 

No, he was going back in time, but not that far. 1996, a year to the day after the first time she walked into the tattoo shop. It was quaint and touristy and clean, nothing like the place over the record shop in Camden where he'd had all his done (well, for the scenario, at least; he'd always been intrigued but any body modification was a signature and an identifier, he simply couldn't because of the work).

 

He was only there for the summer hols, making a bit of cash before going back to school. Only doing henna on an endless parade of giggling 13-30s, since he didn't have enough experience for anything else yet.

 

He rattled off the care instructions to a vacant blonde pushing thirty that was there for a hen weekend. Thank God the whole party hadn't come in, he hated those. Usually got a few inappropriate comments and touches, tons of phone numbers. Never took any of them up on it because they were all too boring.

 

He waved over the next one from the waiting area without looking; henna was the big thing that year, always a queue.

 

She sat down in the chair and all the air went out of the room.

 

(He'd seen pictures of Molly when she was young, uni and even before; she didn't display them in her flat but he'd got bored and gone through her photo albums once.)

 

Her hair was shorter and hung in two messy pigtails, a bit escaping to brush her jaw and a strand of fringe falling in her eye. It was cool in the shop but hot outside; small beads of perspiration clung to her temples. The skin of her throat was flushed from heat and where she'd been fidgeting with her necklace, a cheap polymer clay yin-yang pendant with nickel beads on a black waxed cotton cord, the kind they overcharged £5 for on the pier.

 

She was wearing a short vest top, the kind of skinny horizontal stripes in a shades-tones-tints orange monochrome colour scheme that had been popular back then, yellow shorts that revealed pale, shapely legs, a plain sticking plaster over one knee (shaving accident). Blue plimsolls with the laces loose enough to slip off without being untied; no socks. Her fingernails were purple with a holographic glitter overcoat, varnish chipping.

 

No cosmetics, no perfume, but the very faintest trace of patchouli incense and sea air on her skin.

 

Tame, suburban; no hint of a razor in her smile like his last (only) girlfriend, Irene. The less said about her the better; she'd ripped his heart out but the Frenum piercing had been her idea and at least he still liked that. He might even go for a full Jacob's Ladder one day.

 

"So what do you want and where do you want it?" he asked, pitching just a bit of sex into his tone; he knew how to pull, he just didn't bother with it unless there was something else in it for him.

 

Her eyes got a little wider, her cheeks pinked.

 

"On my back. But I um, I don't know what I want."

 

Oh, I think I can show you a few things.

 

"You're supposed to pick something from the flash in the waiting area," he said, not at all annoyed like he would be with anyone else.

 

"I, um, couldn't decide. You do this all day, so you could just, ah, pick for me?"

 

"Brave," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "Turn around, straddle the chair."

 

She laughed, a little nervous. "Just, um, don't give me a cock on my back."

 

And she wasn't even trying. Dear God.

 

His eyes darted down to where her shorts were stretched tight over her arse, legs parted just enough to accommodate the back of the stool. He could see the top of her pants where the waistband of the shorts gapped over her tailbone; white polyester with red cherries, red scalloped elastic trim.

 

He wheeled his own stool closer, spreading his legs and caging the outside of her thighs, maybe a little closer than was strictly professional, but certainly far enough away that no one would notice and he could still work. His black jeans were entirely too snug to begin with, now made worse by the insistent press of his cock against the fabric. He adjusted the way his t-shirt pooled in his lap, the folds hiding his rather obvious interest.

 

"I'll try to restrain myself," he deadpanned. If only she knew; he wanted nothing more than to press up against her and grind, clamping his mouth over her lightly sunburnt shoulder until she begged for his hands on her, his cock inside her.

 

"So, what suits you? Flower, butterfly, sun, skull, lotus—"

 

"Skull," she said, shivering as he used the spray bottle between her shoulder blades, wiped away the sunblock and sweat.

 

"Really?" he asked. He'd only been rattling off the top line of the flash on the sandwich board out front.

 

"I want to be a forensic pathologist," she said brightly before shrinking, realizing too late that he'd probably react like everyone else.

 

"Interesting," he said. "I'm reading chemistry but I often thought I'd rather solve crimes. I tried to once when I was eleven, but I didn't get very far."

 

He'd never told anyone that before. (He hadn't, actually, until Moriarty came on the scene, and never would have admitted the same when he was actually twenty).

 

He didn't bother with a stencil or an outline; he grabbed a fresh applicator and prepared to start.

 

"You don't think it's weird?" she asked, craning her neck to peer over her shoulder.

 

"Nope," he said. "Head front, don't move if you can help it. And warn me if you have to sneeze."

 

Not that it would really matter, it would fade in a few days, but he was particular about his work.

 

She made a little noise and jumped when the applicator touched her skin; so sensitive.

 

He worked in silence, applying the cool paste and and listening to her breathing. He tapped his foot to the beat of the music playing softly over the speaker near his table; as a rule he didn't listen to contemporary music, but it was there and had a way of getting inside his head.

 

(Especially when Molly had it playing in her flat or in her office, tinny and faint through earbuds or her laptop; songs from years he'd rather not remember for how aching and uncomfortable they were, alone and alien, before the drugs and long before he had friends, but he didn't want to think about that now.)

 

"This is my favourite song," she said when the track changed.

 

(It wasn't her favourite in real life, but it was the only one he found tolerable in her top five.)

 

He nudged his foot closer, "accidentally" letting the toe of his shoe brush the side of hers as he kept the beat. He wouldn't want to fuck her in time with the song, too down-tempo, but it was the perfect speed for the lead-up; kissing up the column of her neck, her mouth, palming the outside of her silky thigh, grinding his cock against the round curve of her belly.

 

"You think you're a creep and a weirdo?" he asked conversationally, adding a whiplash curve underneath his memento mori before starting on a poppy, since she was more of an intoxicant than opium.

 

"Sometimes," she answered honestly.

 

"There are worse things than not fitting in."

 

(Ugh, no, he was getting too maudlin and his erection had started to flag, sub-thoughts of lying face-to-face with her on his bed at uni and listening to autumn rain while just holding hands getting too close to the surface, making him long for a past that never could have happened in any reality; he fast-forwarded through finishing the design and exchanging names [and he'd give her his real one, not the name he'd made up to use on the job or in clubs], then deciding to hell with it all and just leaving for the day, following her out, asking if she'd fancy some chips.)

 

They ended up with ice cream instead; he watched greedily as her lips and tongue worked around and around the cone.

 

(He supplied a memory from real life to augment it; there had been some hospital-wide staff event thing at Bart's a few months back, free ice cream, Molly had sat in the lab eating hers, legs swinging on the stool like she was on holiday; she'd offered him a lick before remembering who she was talking to. He'd actually come twice that night thinking about it.)

 

He kissed her before she could finish her ice cream, her mouth wet and sweet and cold; he led her back to the dodgy bedsit he'd sublet from an old school acquaintance while they were abroad.

 

He kissed her and kissed her, pressing her back flat to the door once they were inside; her mouth was surprisingly skilled but she didn't know what to do with her hands. They fluttered like hummingbirds before landing on his waist, twisting into his t-shirt.

 

He'd be the one with the depth and breadth of experience, she'd be the virgin.

 

(His cock jumped in his hand with the thought of it; he'd never had any kind of obsession like other men, never really thought much about that at all. There was a jealous impulse deep inside him, though, that wished he could erase every other man from Molly's life, bleach away the stains of their touch from her skin. It probably wasn't good, but he didn't care. There was something about her that made him want to be first-last-only.)

 

He palmed her arse and pressed his cock to her belly; he pulled her away from the door and walked them backwards until he made it to the bed.

 

"I've never done this before," she panted, breaking the kiss. "I've never had a boyfriend."

 

It was probably one of things that a normal man would respond to with "I'll be gentle," or "We'll only go as far as you want," or some other... something, but this was his head and he didn't need to observe rules.

 

"Good," he said, sitting on the bed and pulling her closer, guiding her to stand between his legs.

 

He wasted no time pushing her vest up over her chest, baring the graceful line of her torso. He bent, leaned forward, and finally, finally got his mouth around the ring in her navel. He sucked and kissed the skin, flicked it with his tongue, worried it with his teeth before drawing back and tugging, his palms clamped over her hips and fingertips digging into her arse.

 

She moaned, a breathy, high-pitched thing; her fingers scrabbled over his shoulders before one hand tentatively settled on the back of his neck to card through the ends of his hair.

 

He released the ring, kissed and nipped up her stomach. He let go of her hips to unclasp the front-closure of her bra (matched the pants), watching as the cups slid off her small, pert breasts, her nipples dark and high with arousal.

 

He bracketed her ribcage with his hands; she was so slight. He ran a thumb along the bottom of the swell of her breast, watching the skin pebble, her nipple tightening further. He couldn't stand it any longer, he dove forward and took it into his mouth; he wanted to consume her.

 

He felt her arch as her head fell back; he wondered if she'd ever imagined this (both Molly-the-virgin and Molly-the-dangerous-one).

 

He stroked her other breast, skating fingertips around the areola before trapping the nipple between the first knuckles of his index and middle fingers; with his free hand he unbuttoned and unzipped her shorts, gripped the waistband and pulled them down over her hips.

 

He didn't break contact, pulling deeply on her breast with his lips while she balanced on his shoulders, toed off her shoes and stepped out of the shorts. Her top and bra went next; in any scenario he dreamed up Molly was always eager to bare herself to him.

 

He tugged again on the ring in her navel, wondered if she did that when she was lying alone in bed, unable to sleep. Thought about the other things she might do in bed when she was unable to sleep, wanted to see that.

 

"You've never had a boyfriend. Do you ever touch yourself?" he mouthed the tip of her sternum, looked up at her through his fringe.

 

"Doesn't everybody?" she laughed, awkward, nervous; adult-Molly and Molly-from-before bleeding through.

 

(Molly had half a shelf of books about female sexuality and its expression; it was a very safe bet that she indulged herself as often as he, if not more. He'd never found toys, though, but he hadn't actually searched her drawers. Nothing in the bedside table, at least, though she did have condoms and lube in there, quietly waiting for their expiration dates like a pensioner in a care home. Maybe he'd offer her the opportunity to use them, rather than letting them go to waste [it was so much easier to be bold in his thoughts when he was stroking his cock, relishing the glide of his hand and the warmth of the bathwater].)

 

He ran a finger up the inside of her thigh, traced the elastic of her pants where it rested against the crease of her leg. "Over your underwear?"

 

He crooked his finger, ran the knuckle over the soaked material, thinking he wanted to lick her through it, feel the fabric against his tongue before he peeled them off of her.

 

"Sometimes." She breathed harshly, spreading her thighs farther apart to accommodate, _encourage_ his touch.

 

"Under?"

 

"Mmhmm."

 

He used two fingers to push aside the fabric, slid against slick curls.

 

In his bathtub, he backed off his strokes, getting himself entirely too close already. He ran his hands over his shoulders, his neck, imagining her smaller ones on him as he caressed her, dipping between her labia, circling her clit.

 

Her thighs began to shake and she fisted the fabric of his shirt; he hadn't even used his fingers to penetrate her and she was coming. He stroked her until she grabbed his wrist, pushed his hand away.

 

He tipped his head up and she bent to kiss him as she clambered—he pulled her onto his lap, finally finding adequate friction as he thrust up against her.

 

He broke the kiss, mouthed her neck, sucked a mark into her throat that everyone would see.

 

(He could never brand her so in the real world, were it ever to happen; he wouldn't want anyone to call her professionalism or proclivities into question, ever. There were other ways of marking something as his, besides.)

 

"I want... I want to do something for you, if you'll let me," she said, her cheek pressed to his hair and her blunt nails scratching over his scalp.

 

"Anything," he said, nipping her earlobe. He meant it, too. She was the only person he could trust completely with his body (with the one organ inside it he constantly denied the existence of).

 

She shifted backwards off of him, her bare feet smacking softly on the floorboards; she took his wrists and pulled him to stand. She pushed his t-shirt up and he got the hint, took it off. She leaned in, planted a kiss just to the left of centre of his chest. She traced swirls and patterns of the inked lines on his skin, following with soft, parted lips; her hands found his belt, worked open the buckle. Her fingers dipped under the waistband of his jeans, hooking and giving an experimental tug of the material before she undid the button, eased down the zip.

 

She palmed him through the heavy fabric, risking a glance up at him to make sure it was okay for her to be doing this, to finally get to touch in all the ways she'd thought about while sitting in class, staring out the window on the bus, late at night in her bed, in the bath.

 

(His own hand moved back to his cock, finally, tired of teasing his chest with light fingertips; he pressed it down against his thighs once before taking himself in hand again, one slow, light stroke as he imagined her pushing his jeans over his hips, down to his ankles.)

 

He kicked them off his magically bare feet, stood before her in his briefs. Her fingers skated up the underside of the shaft, stumbling when she felt the ring just below the head.

 

"Is that—?"

 

"Yes," he answered simply.

 

She pulled the waistband of his pants away from where the head of his cock strained against it, eased him out, hooked her fingers in the elastic and tugged them over his hips, arse, before moving back to _look_. She ghosted her fingertips over the tip, traced the line along the glans, flicked the ring that ran through the frenulum.

 

He exhaled sharply, ran his palms over her smooth shoulders, her thin arms for something to do. She leaned in closer, kissed his chest again, down to the line of his ribs; she urged him back to the bed to sit.

 

She followed him down, kneeling between his spread thighs; she ran her hands up his legs before gripping his cock lightly with one hand and planting the softest of kisses on the tip.

 

(He'd never had a blowjob, but he could fill in the sensations well enough with his mind and he'd watched enough porn to have a good idea on the visuals; he also spent quite a bit of time looking at Molly's mouth and all the shapes it made.)

 

He gazed into her eyes, so big and dark and beautiful, drawing him in before drifting closed, lashes feathering over her cheeks as she took the head into her mouth, tongued the slit, her bottom lip resting on the ring.

 

(He could probably get away with a piercing. The last time he'd considered it, acrylics weren't a choice. It would be a few weeks of avoiding any situation where metal would be a problem; he wasn't planning on flying or getting an MRI within the next two months anyway. Something to think about, next time the boredom was just too great and he needed the kind of thrill that wasn't any kind of substitute for cocaine but had to suffice anyway.)

 

Molly ran her tongue up the underside of the shaft, swirling over the head, stroking him with her delicate, gentle hand.

 

(He found himself getting close again already; he didn't want to come yet but the bath water was beginning to cool. Finish now or take it to the bedroom?

 

He had more options in the bedroom; grinding against the mattress, on his back, on his knees [he'd done that once, imagined pulling out and coming on her thighs, her stomach; he'd nearly fallen off the bed from the intensity of it]...

 

He let the water out of the tub, stood and dried as quickly as possible, padded into his bedroom. The door was already locked, as was the bathroom. Couldn't be too careful.

 

He arranged the pillows, fished the cherry-flavoured lube out from between the mattress and the headboard [old habits died hard; in 221B, all drawers and cabinets were public places and his landlady didn't actually change his sheets for him, so it was the safest place], leaned back and got comfortable.)

 

The scene shifted from blowjob to stretched out together, naked on the single bed, legs and arms tangled, kissing like there was no tomorrow but they still had all day today. He supposed that was true, her holiday would end, he'd go back to school, they'd never see one another again because that was how those things worked.

 

(Ugh, maudlin again, what was wrong with him tonight?)

 

Fine, switching gears, moving ten years ahead in time. He owns a tattoo shop in Soho now, caters to the arts and tech crowds, solves crimes sometimes because he that's what he'd do in any life. The shop does henna because it's the in thing again for weddings and pregnant women and he likes to keep the clientele diverse; he never does it himself, stays more in the background and only does the most technically challenging work.

 

He's on his way back in from a consult with a performance artist about a suspension, working out the details and checking the construction of the rigging when he sees her in his shop.

 

His breath leaves him as he remembers that one endless day and night in Brighton near the end of summer. She's browsing the flash album for henna; it's the only flash in the entire shop because everything else they do is custom.

 

"I was telling a friend about that summer," she says much later. "She got married last month and this was where she had her henna done, and when she mentioned the owner, I just thought—maybe..."

 

"I'll take this one," he says to the faceless employee behind the counter. "I know what she wants."

 

He tips his head toward the depths of the studio; they pass open doors full of clients in various stages of pleasure-pain. He leads her into his private workspace, clean and uncluttered only because it has to be.

 

"So, what do you want and where do you want it?" he asks, washing his hands after discarding his jacket.

 

He wears a suit and it hides everything that marks him as being him; his skin isn't a billboard but a curated gallery that only a choice few see.

 

She hands him a photograph; an old, glossy standard six-by- four. "On my back," she says.

 

She isn't shy about unbuttoning her blouse, letting it fall from her shoulders; she straddles the stool he keeps for clients without prompting.

 

The photograph is of the piece he did ten years before; the composition and technical skill leave a bit to be desired.

 

"You've just finished your foundation training," he says, sitting on his own stool and pulling his supply table within reach.

 

"I took a gap year. Family reasons."

 

"Mm. Congratulations nonetheless." She still shivers from the spray bottle. "I expect we'll be working together, eventually. I have a few friends at the Yard that require my services from time to time."

 

She makes a non-committal noise, fidgets with the back of the stool.

 

"I was thinking," she says before he begins, "I might want to have it done permanently sometime. The design, I mean."

 

Small talk is a waste of time, then; he gets to the point. "I've thought about you. Would you like to come upstairs? My flat's just above the shop."

 

She turns to look at him, appraising; a lot changes about a person in ten years.

 

"Alright," she says.

 

He takes her hand, leads her up the back stairs that connect his studio to his flat, kisses her against the door.

 

She kisses back, eager; her hands begin on the buttons of his shirt. There's nothing shy about her now, no hesitancy. Good.

 

The bed is in an actual bedroom this time; he pulls away long enough to get her there. He unclasps her bra—pale blue microfibre, back closure, sensible and adult—looks his fill. Tugs the ring, still in the same place after ten years, wonders if she'll keep it for another ten. It'll have to come out if she ever carries a child, but he doesn't foresee that. (Didn't want to think about it, either; too complicated, too sacred to fetishize or even hope for.)

 

She pushes his shirt from his shoulders, runs her fingers over old ink, then new. Looks up curiously when she sees the skull ringed in poppies on his chest. He doesn't meet her eyes, choosing to kiss her instead.

 

Clothes come off faster, the sense of urgency overrides the desire to make it last. She pushes him to the bed, naked; he moves back against the headboard, she follows. Straddles his thighs, scratches her nails over his chest. Fingers the barbell in his left nipple.

 

He kneads her arse, skin so smooth under his palms; he urges her closer, wanting to feel her wet heat rub over his cock before they shift just so and—

 

(Slowly, he told himself, make it last just a little longer. He stilled his hand, gripped the base of his cock firmly, cupped his bollocks and rubbed his inner thigh, imagining her small, cool hands in place of his.)

 

She kisses him, teething his bottom lip, her breath damp against his chin. One of her hands drifts lower, over his stomach, through the faint trail of hair that runs from his navel down; she grips his cock and gives it one firm, confident stroke, flicking the single ring with the side of her thumb before twisting over the head. He'd never ended up getting the full ladder, after all.

 

"Molly," he exhales harshly, breaking from her mouth to nip at her chin, her jaw. It's the first time he's spoken her name in ten years.

 

(He'd never let himself say it out loud, kept it on his tongue to roll around like a sweet, sucking on it, savouring it.)

 

She cants her hips, shifts, rubs the tip of his cock over her clit and groans before pushing him back; she's so slick, so soft he could happily come just like that before he ever fucks her. Maybe some other time.

 

"Sherlock," she all but whispers his name, wonder and want in her inflection.

 

She slides down on him until she can't take any more, hovers; her eyes are hooded and dark dark dark but she'd looking at him and he's the one being penetrated, spread open, pulling her into himself as her body is pulling him deeper.

 

She shifts back, slides down again, kisses him while one arm winds around his shoulders, the other still between them, fingertips fluttering where their bodies meet—all the places, the skin of his hips, the crease of her thigh, the base of his cock, her labia. He holds her tightly, one arm around her waist and the other around her back, his fingers hooked over her shoulder.

 

He knows he won't last and he's tired of restraining himself; he fucks up into her and they set a fast pace, grunting and sighing and moaning as her forehead presses into his temple and she rides him, clutching desperately to the top of his shoulder, the side of his neck, fingers sliding and scrabbling against sweat-slick skin.

 

(He stroked himself quickly, thrusting into his fist, head tipped back against the headboard, legs slightly splayed and knees bent; he could almost imagine the weight of her on top of him and his nails dug into the top of his thigh because he wanted, he needed—)

 

She comes first, almost violently, pressing the flats of her teeth to his eyebrow, chokes out the most exquisite little noises; the sweet, hot clench of her is too much, too good—

 

His muscles went rigid as the first pulse spilled over his fist, onto his stomach, followed by more and more; he comes inside her, filling her, she surrounds him, draws it out until he's oversensitive and shivering.

 

He stared at the ceiling, closed his eyes, let his spent cock fall from his grip. Ran his fingers through the cooling mess on his stomach, in his pubic hair.

 

It was that moment he hated, the one he looked forward to. His brain, confused by his body, thought he could love her if given half the chance. Properly. He felt it under his skin, in his eyes, his throat.

 

He thought of that other self in the somewhere else, kissing her softly and holding her close, already scheming how he could make it work, running his fingertips over her skin and imagining the path his needle would take as it made his mark indelible. He had the sense not to let go of a second chance.

 

She was farther away now than she ever had been before; he'd thought he had all the time in the world, he'd thought she'd wait.

 

He swallowed the thought, the rush of orgasm and the surge of emotion already receding. He used his clean hand to grab his phone from the bedside table, checked the time. He had seven new texts; he opened them.

 

**I lied about the reading list.**

 

The side of his mouth curled into a smile; the next four texts were all links.

 

**Also, lock your door if you watch Hysteria. If Mrs. Hudson walks in, you'll both be scarred for life.**

 

**Neither of you will ever look at a feather duster the same way again.**

 

He raised an eyebrow, curious.

 

At least he had this, he thought. It was more than it had been, more than he'd ever be willing to give up just to sate base desires. It was something. It was enough. Had to be.

 


End file.
